


i'm still here

by junesangie



Series: too afraid to fall asleep [2]
Category: NCT (Band), SuperM (Korea Band)
Genre: Angst, Denial of Feelings, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Established Relationship, Injury, Lee Taeyong Needs a Hug, Lee Taeyong is Bad at Feelings, Lee Taeyong-centric, M/M, Mild Smut, Minor Injuries, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Graphic Smut, Porn with Feelings, Relationship Problems, Resolved Sexual Tension, Smut, Taemin is a good friend, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Tension, chittaphon leechaiyapornkul | ten is bad at feelings, chittaphon leechaiyapornkul | ten needs a hug, feelings are complicated, i'm feral for this pairing have the second part, taeten - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:54:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25394944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junesangie/pseuds/junesangie
Summary: taeyong's guilt draws his muscles taut; they snap at the mention of his own mistake. he doesn’t wish ill of anybody, save the stupid little boy in his mirror.ten is a dying star around the man he shouldn't love. he’s dancing aimlessly in circles, spinning and swirling as if foolish and lost when it comes to matters of the heart. until the day he isn’t.
Relationships: Lee Taeyong/Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten
Series: too afraid to fall asleep [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796509
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	i'm still here

**Author's Note:**

> here's the second part of the series!! it's been about a MONTH, so i, mars, played the slowed version of 'lit' by oneus and completed the final few paragraphs after a ton of writer's block. hope you all enjoy!

Ten is guiding himself through every day. Carefully. Cautiously. As if he’s treading on glass, for the Earth seems like thin ice above all the seas; one wrong step, and he slips underneath the waves.

Taeyong feels like the world is taunting him. His feet are always poised to run, but his body aches with guilt. Headaches come and go, like the moon pulling tides, waxing and waning before disappearing fully into the night. But fault lines crisscross the dorm’s floors, tectonic plates colliding like what used to be _them_ and is now just _me_ and _him_.

Regret pulses thick and heavy through his veins. He wants to apologize, but Ten won’t give him the chance. And it isn’t that he’s petty, or that he _can’t_ forgive Taeyong for such a massive mistake—he just doesn’t want to discuss it, which leads into the whole other problem of avoiding each other in the same damn house.

The others all know at this point, hearing it from one mouth or the other, murmuring it after practice to the next available ear that will lean in to quench their curiosity. It plays like a music box, wound tight enough to break the springs, over and over and over until he finally can't stand it and has to confront someone other than _him_.

“Can’t you find something better to discuss?” he snaps at Mark, already aware of what he’s muttering to Jongin, speaking far after he was expected to since practice began over an hour ago. He can almost see Taemin’s eyes on the back of his neck: steady, unwavering, challenging him to attack the rest with his words. He knows that fair is fair, but punishment isn’t something to revel in, especially with it being dealt his way.

As he thought, their senior member isn’t far behind him, physically or even in thought, as he approaches the other three. “Taeyong-ah.” A hand on his shoulder, the warning subtle but clear in the way he presses lithe fingertips firmly into the bone. “Leave it be.”

Only billowing silence follows, as Mark’s scared, puppy-like appearance becomes all the more prominent. Jongin runs a hand through his bright blue locks, swallowing with a dismissive look upon his face. “We’re sorry,” he says, with a lift of his eyebrows, trying just a touch harder than usual to bury himself in the nonchalance of a good lie. “Mark’s right, though. We just wanted to see if there’s some way we could help.”

“There’s nothing I need help with.”

He jerks his arm from beneath Taemin’s grasp, knowing it’s pointless to cease their whispers and ridiculous problem-solving, but still growing irritable as he tries to brainstorm himself. What could he _possibly_ resolve first that the others couldn’t think of? Is it too late to apologize for anything at all…?

It’s a masterpiece of spilled paint, the wrong words, blurred faces and too many siphoned colors, just accumulating gray as time ticks away. By the time it fills in, vibrancy lost forever to those who admired its individuality, the paint will crumble. It will crackle and chip, flakes drifting like snow to pale earth, sun or storm be damned, and lie until the final shreds fall to join their brothers and sisters.

He’s unsure; unsteady. And he can’t focus as the music starts, hardly registering the song alone as he positions himself in what he assumes must be the correct place. Taeyong goes through the motions, giving whatever ‘best’ he can muster up, for about half the song. It’s something he memorized a while ago, and no one will give him trouble if he uses the same excuse he always figures will deter the conflict better than any other.

It doesn’t take long for him to trip over his own feet, bleary eyes turning blade-sharp and attentive just before he hits the ground.

“Ow…”

Someone dashes away to stop the music, at least three of the others (if not all those remaining) crowding around him, watching intently as Taeyong rubs a hand down his now-aching thigh. Somebody’s fingers brush over his, then turn him to whatever good side he’s still got, keeping any pressure off what’s probably going to be a nasty bruise tomorrow morning. His hip is throbbing—the outside of his leg, too—and he barely registers the gentle touch, hardly connects the dots until he turns, wincing, to face the only person he never expected to be so close to him after what happened over a week ago.

“Ten—”

“We should stop for today,” the younger says, never once glancing toward those puzzled, blank eyes that fixate on his leg, then back on him. It’s like tunnel vision; he’s unable to memorize, to take in anything but _Taeyong Taeyong Taeyong_ , and it absolutely _disgusts_ him how much he still wants this all to be a lie, even after he heard those words himself, and knows the answer won’t change because of his incessant praying.

It’s only a second, Taemin doesn’t miss a beat. He’s too good at reading people, Taeyong thinks, watching Ten with that same incredulity exuding from glistening irises, only snapping out of the trance when their sunbaenim grasps his arm, swinging it somewhat over his shoulders to help him up. “Come on,” he murmurs, tone soft and encouraging without the need of a single second phrase. “Go get your things.” He’s addressing the others, he knows, because he can only feel the pulsing ache as it spreads throughout his leg, and even if he was about to follow those directions, it would have complicated (and worsened) his pain.

It hurts to walk, but at least he doesn’t have to deal with stairs. Taemin is there to help him back to his room, patient as Taeyong limps down the hallway, then past the doorway, finally collapsing on his bed. The dulling sensation sharpens, ankle protesting against the way it rolls against the carpet, and he wants to scream out of frustration. Why did it have to be today? This was an important practice, damn it… _One job,_ he thinks, scowling down at his feet. _One. Stupid. Job._

“If you need anything, just text me. Okay?”

He nods, ignoring Taemin as he cups his jaw, stroking a thumb down his cheek. In his peripheral, he swears the blond’s typical saccharine beam dwindles, just a touch before he leaves.

It shouldn’t be so hard, shoving down the sensations. Drowning them in indifference. But it’s been too long since tender gestures really meant something.

Taeyong is starving. He can’t take another day without _him_ and the way he traces every inch of his body, makes him feel beautiful, gives his all and hasn’t had the true audacity to ask for something in return.

Emotions are complicated, though, and so are they. Taeyong decides that waiting won’t make things any better.

His phone is on the night table, thanks to Taemin; he ignores the fuzzy-edged pain that spreads when he leans to grab it, but he supposes that’s his fault. If he’d been paying any attention—instead of entwining himself in useless, colorless thoughts—this entire situation could have been avoided, including the cement-thick tension between himself and—

_That’s enough. Just do what you took the phone for._

Taeyong doesn’t really hesitate this time, opening up his phone, then settling on the messages app before his fingers can cow out of the task like he might do in a moment. Pressure never does him in. He’s Lee fucking Taeyong, king of NCT’s duality, masterful rapper, and a good leader to boot, so says the internet. If only he felt even one of those, for then the difficulty deciding whether or not to leave their problems to fester wouldn’t be as nerve-wracking as it is now.

**taeyong**

_hey. i was wondering if you wanted to talk sometime this afternoon._

He’s barely set the device down before it buzzes. Some part of him wants it to be Taemin, or Lucas, or someone other than who he knows it’s going to be the moment he picks it up. The other part of him…

Well. That’s always been more or less of a mystery to everyone else.

**ten**

_about what?_

_i hope you didn’t bruise too much from the fall, by the way. i’m sorry for getting so close._

“Damn it…” he whispers, smacking his forehead against the screen as it darkens once more, concealing the instantaneous messages from the one person who doesn’t actually want to talk to him. Everyone in this house is either a fast typer, too quick to respond, or both. For once, maybe he wants someone to ignore his stupidity. His unassailable demeanor has faded more than enough lies ago, and the retaliation isn’t any better. It feels like the attention—the unwavering expectation to be the best—is crushing him, and it’s collapsing the second he gets to be alone, and he hates it, _despises it_ , can’t wait until the day is finally over so he can have some peace.

He forces himself to answer, even though he knows what’s coming next. If he happens to be the one saying it, proposing the idea both of them are skirting around for the time at hand, it’s only because he knows no one else will.

**taeyong**

_just...come to my room._

_it still hurts. i bet i’ll be fine by tomorrow._

Of course it still hurts. He’s sure Ten feels the same, and the idea immerses him in some tidal wave of disregarded, selfish awareness, somehow all coming to the surface _now_ instead of any better moment, for more time than he expects. It’s minutes, maybe, eyes half-lidded and conscience manifesting into the sour saliva coating his tongue, until the knock at his door becomes a little more insistent, and he finally comes to with a sharp inhale. Head jerking to one side—just a small twitch to another’s view, but this feels more insistent to him—Taeyong rises, shaky on his better leg despite possessing excellent balance, and makes his clumsy way to the source of noise.

Nothing about this will be easy, he realizes. But he’s not known for giving up, and Ten’s persistent character is strong, even now. He can sense it as he opens the door, coming face-to-face with the features he’s memorized, and suddenly the ache in his leg isn’t the only one he feels.

It takes a moment to understand what exactly this is. But Ten leans in, and there’s no protest, and it takes seconds for Taeyong to feel soft, sweet lips on his own. No insistence, but a promise lies between them both. Chest swelling, there’s a warmth even more inviting than the summer sun building within, lemon-gold rays filtering through the glass door opposite to the one Ten is keeping him locked under. He nearly feels his leg give out, weakened still from the fall earlier, and those same hands steady him, keep him upright with an undertone of _it’s okay, I’ve got you_ making him feel so much worse about everything he’s done.

He needs to apologize, and the moment Ten breaks away, that chance slips through the crack beneath that door and right into his mouth. It’s not sour—no, the flavor of a lemonade popsicle lingers even after they part—but it certainly isn’t pleasant as this. He wants more; he can’t help himself, now that they’re practically starving after being away from one another for so long.

_So needy…_ he can almost hear Ten chastising, but in a tone that tells him he’ll receive what they both desire in no time. The will to hear it again overpowers him, takes an unacceptable turn, yet still arrives at its destination. No wonder Ten drifts off sometimes when the others are talking. It’s not simple to concentrate when your head is full of images created only nights ago, and you’re willing yourself into submission so as not to reveal their effect in front of five other members.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, as if ashamed, letting Ten hold him up but still glancing toward the bed with a watchful eye. “What I said, I—”

“Don’t.” The younger peeks through bleached locks, heavy lids allowing dragonfly-wing lashes to flutter just a touch, motion barely perceptible to anyone but Taeyong as he silences him with a second, shorter kiss. “Not now.”

He doesn’t need to hear it again.

Ten’s hands roam like usual, but this time they’re more than to explore; he’s lifted off his feet, knee instinctively bent as unusually strong hands grip his thighs with that same reassurance, carrying him to the bed he left just minutes before. The sheets are rumpled, not horribly, but enough to tell he didn’t pay much attention to making them up this morning. It’s almost endearing, but considered the circumstance, he’s glad the difference won’t be as noticeable to the others. Especially with hapless anticipation about this being their version of problem-solving.

A soft _huff_ leaves plush lips, parted in partial shock as he takes in the sight before him. The blinds are closed, door shut behind them…no one would see anything. If that was the intention at all. “Baby,” he starts, and doesn’t finish, because he isn’t sure what he’d say. No apologies right now, he remembers. But what if he could propose something else? No inhibitions needed, no apprehension, only the two of them together and nobody there to cause restless, knee-jerk choices based on what they see of them.

Taeyong wants more than that for Ten, because he deserves better than what he gave last night. Self-doubt, internalized fear—it doesn’t have anything to do with the man he loves, and that should have been obvious from the start.

Their gazes meet, doll hues on doe eyes, and it’s more than clear as Ten nods in affirmation what they want.

Like the rusted gears have broken into gold, Taeyong pulls at the collar of Ten’s shirt, bringing him down and to his knees as they buckle beneath him, mouths meeting hungrily as if they haven’t felt this in ages, like lives have passed without them ever touching one another in such passionate fashions. Neither worries about the past inflictions; even Taeyong’s bruised thigh numbs as fingers run up toward the elastic waistband of his pants, full-bodied shudder revealing his submission to this wish, soft cry too high-pitched to be an objection. Ten tugs at them, careful to remove these alone as he breaks the angled liplock, standing to his full height as he pulls them off his lover, only to toss them aside with careless abandon. His focus is elsewhere, and while Taeyong might be careful with such things, and he is known for thoroughness, it only applies to what this all leads up to instead of the foreground preparation.

He can feel himself throbbing, can see the same in front of him, and doesn’t lose a moment of this opportunity.

He half-circles the bed, Taeyong swinging both legs carefully onto the sheets, watching the predatory gleam in Ten’s expression, words faltering on his tongue. _I want to forget,_ he thinks. _I want you to heal this. Heal us._

And it’s as if he read the elder’s mind, because in no less than two seconds, he’s got both arms braced on either side of Taeyong’s shoulders, straddling him, settled just above so that no friction passes but the body heat is so incredibly evident. He’ll beg for this, Ten knows, because he has before. He’s pleaded with him to stop teasing, to just give him release—but driving him to the edge is what Ten does best, and he can’t possibly let him indulge in pleasure without a little bit of desperate compliance.

Leaning down, elbows bent without strain, he presses a kiss to a temple partway concealed with bright blue hair. “Tell me what you need,” he murmurs, and Taeyong inhales with a noticeable stutter, trying to buck his hips up to meet Ten’s. They’re held down by a palm covering his abdomen, and pupils blow wider, black pools growing ever so slightly as the younger lowers himself, just barely brushing against the fabric of Taeyong’s underwear, then pulling back up. This elicits a _whine_ now, both his hands now holding tight to what Ten hasn’t seemed to secure just yet, pulling him down gently, but without question. 

He doesn’t protest. But when their hips meet, rolling together, moans barely out of sync—they can’t seem to move fast enough, Taeyong pulling down the rest of his clothing while Ten strips on his own. It’s messy, sweat beading on their foreheads, their upper lips while it happens, but the intimacy of it can’t be mistaken for anything other than what it is. Everything blurs a bit when they’re finally exposed, summer’s gleam barely filtering through the blinds when taut muscles unwind, gentle touch enough to make Taeyong give himself over to the way his counterpart moves. 

With a little tangling of limbs, and more than enough hands on exposed flesh, _he_ ends up being the one to straddle _Ten_ this time, holding tight to his shoulders, gripping so hard his nails may leave dents in the honeyed flesh. Having performed this so many times before, each time so unpracticed and afraid, Taeyong stays there a moment. They listen to each other breathe; both take a moment to let the sweat roll down their temples, summer slinking in on padded feet, slicking their thighs and making it even more uncomfortable than before to adjust their position. Ten rubs his thumbs across Taeyong’s hip bones, holding him so that neither one loses balance on the linen sheets.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, eyes fixed on the sight before him, those pretty lashes fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird in the span of a single second. He wonders, for more than a moment, what it feels like to be so perfect. On the outside, at least, because there’s no such thing once you see within. 

Taeyong knows what he’s being asked. All he has to do is nod, firmly, though it’s with a practically breathless sigh given how the heat affects them both, feeling himself grow even harder as Ten’s hand travels downward. Steady, unsure, he feels lithe fingers wrap around the base of his cock, stroking up twice, then twisting at the wrist on the third. “ _Ten,_ ” he whispers, the younger’s name spilling from his lips as he takes them both in hand, a little faster and only a touch more desperate (though who can tell?) than when his hands first melded to Taeyong’s body only seconds before. Again, again, _again._ He’s moving faster, concentrated and distant, and for once Taeyong doesn’t care that it’s not what he wants. The point was proximity; the point was a return to something resembling normalcy, and he’s getting it.

So why isn’t he satisfied? His hips jerk, pushing into Ten’s grasp, and the force of thin fingers will leave more bruises come tomorrow. The hand moves now, skimming over the purpling slice of skin from earlier, making him wince and groan at once as the tingling sensation begins to spread. First in his shoulders, then down the delicate curve of his spine, and to his limbs and every extremity save the one his lover is pumping with his own. It’s sticky, ambiguous, and Taeyong cannot truthfully say he despises the feeling of disconnect from everything but this. 

Ten is panting now, throat bobbing as he swallows down a mewl, just to let it surface not a moment too soon as it serenades the deep undertone of Taeyong’s own unintelligible prayer. The heat is unbearable, and Ten’s wrist must be getting tired—but the timing is flawless. Even more than either could have planned.

With a shiver, another moan, their bodies jerk in tandem, one spilling over seconds after the first, ropes of come striping their stomachs while their high rises like the tide, chased and caught with generous satisfaction. 

Perhaps a bit too much of that, Taeyong thinks. Then he sees the fucked-out, hibiscus-pink flush to Ten’s body, the way his free hand swipes the sweat from a brow without creases, opposite hold still possessive as he clutches tight to someone he was pretending not to know.

Their bodies are not puzzles. They are not sculptures. They are mobile, stuffed with insanity, previous preparation nothing as life takes each advantage it can with the two of them alone. 

They are alive, Taeyong realizes, and he knows that because of the way salt joins their newest kiss. How many they’ve shared, neither dares counting. In truth, both were fearful of those two weeks ago, for they could have been the last had cowardice won this fight.

“ _Cheonsa_ ,” he mumbles, slurred and half-coherent, into Ten’s intoxicating lips. They can ground him, or send him to the heavens. How can he lie any longer to the proof of his emotion? “You know I didn’t mean—”

Ten shoves himself at him again, craving the tranquility he desires. The liminal feeling of this room, in this minute, nothing on his mind but Lee Taeyong and his beautiful, ethereal mind. He deserves something of the sort, he knows, after suffering two weeks of disbelief and witless heartache. 

“Shut up.” He’s daring now. A tightrope walker across the hot-spring pit of denial and despair. There’s a fine line drawn for such things, and dammit, if he has to walk it first, then he will. Another kiss, brutally warm and unconditionally tender. “Later.” The press of his lips is open-mouthed now, grazing but careful, all the way up Taeyong’s jawline until ivory teeth nip at his earlobe. 

He pretends, for now, nothing was misunderstood. He pretends for Ten, because he loathes the absence of his love. 

He pretends that everything is wrapped up in a tight little bow. And in a way, it’s true.

**Author's Note:**

> SO, i actually have no idea when i'll write the last part of this. but since it's been taeten-centric, i'm likely going to wrap it up with a final work that focuses on them, too. 
> 
> and hey—maybe i'll write a series of shorter works with a different feel?


End file.
